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Chapter 8 - Clowd

The flame shoots past my cheek and I grin.

Finally.

Then I grab the crackling, cold energy at my fingertips and bend it toward Fiyr. A blast of crystalline air jets at his sweat-stained undershirt, and he leaps away, then swings with a simple-steel practice blade. I knock it aside and aim a stab at his shins. He jumps again, then thrusts out both hands, the telltale swoosh of air letting me know fire is coming.

I launch myself out of the way, stumbling, then land flat on my stomach in the dust as the fire sears the air close enough to cast heat over me.

"Okay, stop! Stop!" Fiyr shouts as I scramble to my feet. Faern and Sir Fere watch from the edge of the sparring pen, and Fiyr walks over to help me up, breathing hard. "Sorry, Clowd, I shouldn't have…"

"No, it was good!" I insist. "C'mon, let's go again."

"I want you to practice your parries," Fiyr says, getting that look on his face when he's telling me to do something he knows I won't like. "You can't use your… your life-force for everything."

I roll my eyes. Whatever. Guess he didn't care that I parried his swing perfectly right before he tried to roast me into ashes. Sir Fere hops the side of the pen and Faern squeezes around the break in the wood, then we take up positions across from each other.

Her fighting's really predictable; she uses the same moves in the same order, over and over again until we get tired. I think she picked it up from Samn. I'm practically stifling yawns as I knock away her next by-the-book swing. Then I retaliate, picturing exactly how Fiyr did it, and manage to push past her defenses with a little extra strength behind it.

"Clowd! Don't try to win, this is just for practice," Fiyr lectures me from the other side of the sparring pen.

But this is boring! I use the flat edge of my sword to slap the back of Faern's hand as she makes another loose drive at my right side. Sure enough, Fairy's Light slips out of her gloved grip and lands in the dirt. I point Papercut at the ground, barely breathing hard. Faern sighs and dusts herself off, then grabs her sword. Even from a few paces away, I can smell the tang of blood on her breath; she's been biting her lips. What's she so stressed about now?

We go back and forth another couple of times, with Brakken calling advice to his squire from the sidelines. Fiyr is stonily silent, staring at my footwork.

"Can we do a real spar now?" I ask Fiyr, turning away so I don't have to keep breathing in the smell of Faern's blood. "I'm bored."

Faern folds her arms, but before she can snap at me, Brakken comes over to replace me and start helping her up close. Fiyr watches them for a moment, his mouth a tight line, then returns his stern look to me.

"Your parries still need work."

"No, they don't! I'm doing them exactly right, which you'd know if you didn't stop every spar after like five seconds!" I know I'm heading straight for weeks of laundry duty, as usual, but I'm at my wit's end. It's impossible to practice what it'll be like in a real battle if he keeps making me do the same little moves over and over again in isolation!

"Because you refuse to use your sword!" Fiyr snaps right back. "Clowd, you need to rely on your sword. Your life-force should be a last resort!"

Which is never, ever something he'd say to Faern. My cheeks burn and I feel my temper rising out of control. Because he wants to keep my powers secret, even though obviously, Brakken knows, and Faern knows, and Lady Faise knows, and—and it's not like I've ever hurt anyone! He's just telling me what to do for no reason at all!

"Whatever." It's better than starting a shouting match with Brakken and Faern still well within earshot, but it makes Fiyr's eyes blaze anyway. "I'm going to hunt alone, okay? We can do this tomorrow."

Ordering him around really isn't doing any favours, but after he clenches his jaw so hard I think it's about to snap in half, he breathes out and says, "Fine. Fine. Be careful, check the—stay alert, I mean. Faern, Sir Fere, and I will be around these forests if you need help. You have permission to take from the training rations if you get hungry, and get back at least a couple of hours before dinner."

I guess all those restrictions and allowances are his way of re-establishing his authority, but I still got my way, so I grin at him without much warmth and say, "I will."

Then Sir Fluffyhooves and I disappear into the forests.

I'm not planning to stay near them, but… hey, if I get into trouble, Fiyr won't be around to lecture me for using god-magic. Not life-force, I remind myself, even though it stings something in my heart. I don't have life-force. I have god-magic because I'm half-god and Fiyr hates it because it means I'm strong. Maybe that's why he never actually spars me until one of us loses. Because he knows it's going to be him. I know who wouldn't be all insecure around me. Who might actually be able to teach me how to use my magic properly.

I spur Sir Fluffyhooves into a gallop and head for the border.

The smell of Fiyr's sweat and Faern's blood finally clears from my nose, swept away by the fresh, lively smells of the forest. I half-close my eyes, drinking in the peace that solitude brings, and trust Sir Fluffyhooves to know the way.

The manor is just as imposing and fantastical as I remember.

Now, though, I'm looking at it and thinking of the image my father sent me, of me and him sitting at a table happily talking together. Could that be real…? Can gods see the future? I feel silly wondering, especially since Lady Eie's visions would never be as clear as the image he sent me, but still… We just don't know. And Fiyr isn't interested in finding out.

I dismount Sir Fluffyhooves and lash his lead to a tree at the edge of the forest, then scale the wall. This is usually where I come to meet Mom, but we didn't arrange a time for today, so she's probably not around. The gardens aren't deserted, though; a few god-toys in shiny green boots that go to their knees and dirt-stained, thick gloves that grip shears and spades are kneeling in rows of hedges and flower patches, probably seeding for spring. I watch them work silently for a few minutes, then jump to attention as the sweet, tingly smell of a god washes over me.

"Clowd!" My father stands on the other side of his gardens, looking impossibly regal and commanding when compared to all the gardeners. "Son!"

Before I can think better of it, I run through the stone garden paths, ignoring the god-toys, and skid to an awkward stop in front of him. How do gods greet each other?

I'm answered with a crushing hug. He's so strong! I marvel, and try to squeeze him right back. His satin shirt is slippery on my cheek. I feel kind of tiny, but still, joy bubbles up in my chest. A dad-hug. Never thought I'd find out what that feels like.

"You are back!" he exclaims, pulling back and holding me at arms-length as if he wants to get a good look at me.

I nod, cheeks flushed. "Not to stay yet, but I missed you."

His lips draw back in a perfect, shiny grin. "I missed you!" he repeats back to me. His accent is already disappearing, I notice. His consonants are smoother, and his inflection sounds way more like a Thundrian's. "Have you eaten."

"Have I eaten?" I repeat back to him. He blinks once, then says,

"Have you eaten?"

He picks it up so fast. One of my worries about living with gods was that none of them would ever be able to talk to me normally. But his language is already leaps and bounds better than it was last time, and I'm struck with the sense that he could be fluent in the common tongue within a month or two. Is that another god-thing? Super fast learning? That would explain why Fiyr refuses to believe I've mastered parrying after a year of training. "No, I haven't eaten lunch yet."

He claps his hands, blue eyes glowing. "Lunch! You can eat midday with your kin."

"Eat lunch with you?" I echo, and glance at the gardeners, suddenly self-conscious.

"What are you asking?" His brow wrinkles.

"Um… do you want me to eat lunch with you?"
"Yes!" he exclaims, another dazzling grin splitting his face as I understand. "You can see… see how life as my son is."

I falter. Well, my whole life is life as your son. But I think it's just a language issue. "Really?"

"Really!" He claps again, then motions to the door in the side of the house that I'm assuming he came out of. "Come!"

He gives me an expectant look, and I swallow. "Okay! Wow, okay, let's… have lunch."

I dunno what I was planning, coming here, but it definitely wasn't this. Still, the prospect of actually living like a god for a lunch…? I'm almost dizzy as I follow my dad into the house, then down the vast hallway that the side-door leads to.

It's a sharp contrast to the back hallway where the kitchens were; marble columns line the wide corridor, with the occasional tapestry decorating the wall or bust of a perfect head and shoulders clustered at the bottom of an aforementioned pillar. The floor is pale marble with an almost greenish cast, and small vines of gold shoot through it, creating a scintillating effect when they catch the light of the torches. It makes me think of how Fiyr described the Lunar Crystal. And the gods just use it as their floor.

I almost don't know what to focus on as we sweep past room after room; galleries and sitting rooms and more than one massive staircase and—Library! I nearly slip out of my father's firm on my shoulder as I'm drawn to it, but he stops, seeing my interest.

"Books? What—What books do you read?" he asks, eyes brightening. I'm a little startled, both by his grasp of language for the topic and also by the sheer intensity of his interest. Having him entirely focused on me is a bit dizzying.

"I… I was researching… gods," I explain somewhat uncertainly, and sure enough, his brow creases in worry.

"Researching?"

I bite my lip, trying to think of how to explain it. "I wanted to know… I wanted to know more about gods." I picture the encyclopedias with their limited information, scribbly margins, and fearmonger-y tones. A moment later, another image appears in my mind, of the glimpse I caught of the library but in its full glory; endless, dizzying shelves of books, cream-leather bound tomes with gilt lettering in a language I can't read, neat folders of vellum pages, alphabetized stacks… So much information!

As if my father can read my mind, he grins. "You can read them. Midday—Lunch first."

I nod, still a little breathless. An unbiased source? More like millions of unbiased sources, actually. Just think of all there is to learn! I can't help peeking at my dad out of the corner of my eye as we continue to blow past room after room, wondering how much he could teach me. He wouldn't make me practice parries over and over again, because he'd know I learn fast. He might be able to teach me how to do the brain-picture thing! I could show Mom what Faern looks like.

We arrive in the dining hall.

My jaw actually drops when I see the table; That's more food than… than I've ever seen. It would feed the court for months. This is their lunch?! I thought lunch was just… a piece of fruit and bowl of spiced rice if there's time. Not a Starlaxi-damned-feast.

"Sit!" he exclaims, and I finally notice, over the piled food, more gods at the table. I freeze in the door, just taking in sight of so many perfect faces. At least half a dozen are seated on this side of the room, and more on the other, all silently eating. It's a little freaky, but the music emanating from a far corner dispels the creepiness of not talking to anyone while you eat.

At the sound of my father's voice, a few gods look up. A female god with hair like starlight narrows her eyes at the sight of me. I'm a little stunned, then wonder if she's my father's wife. Like Samn and Sir Strommer. The idea of having more family is dizzying. Will we be close, too? She doesn't look very warm and fuzzy, but maybe if she knew who I was…

"I'll introduce you," my father says, then… stops talking. With his brain? I marvel at the way sudden understanding ripples over the seated gods. The starlight-haired woman gives me a thin-lipped smile, then returns to her meal.

Okay, maybe I won't be gaining a second mom, then. Whatever, my real mom's plenty, I decide, scowling at the woman who is no longer looking at me.

"Sit!" my father repeats, and guides me over the seat next to the empty head of the table. Then he takes a seat in the massive, ornate wooden chair at the end. As I take a seat too, my legs dangling over the edge of the too-big chair like I'm a little kid, a short human woman steps forward to start moving food from one of the large platters to my dad's empty plate.

He watches, eyes hazy with disinterest, then turns back to me. "Clowd! Will you eat?"

"Sure," I say, darting a look at the woman who then moves to my side to move strange orange things wrapped in lettuce onto my plate, hardly even acknowledging my existence. Another god-toy steps forward to fill my father's goblet with something dark and sharp-smelling. He holds up a finger idly when the crystal glass is half-full, and the man withdraws. I watch him go, feeling a little less hungry. He's around Fiyr's age. His hair is a very ordinary shade of brown, though, and I don't smell the fizz of life-force on him.

A voice suddenly speaks in my mind.

Where do you hail.

I jump in my seat, the silver fork I'd raised clattering back onto the plate too-loudly. What? Who said that? The god-woman I noticed earlier looks up and frowns at me.

Where do you hail.

"From Thundria," I say, voice wavering in the air. The music isn't loud enough to cover the fact that no one else is talking. Do they all talk through the mental-link-thing?

Your aptitude.

"What?"

What is your aptitude. I can almost hear a sigh in her tone. Her voice is a little echoey in my mind, less warm than my father's. I meet her gaze, and quickly look away. Her eyes are piercingly blue, and I feel like a bug that Rhane caught in a jar under her stare.

"I don't have one yet," I lie, with exactly no clue what she's talking about. Is that like life-force?

It is not human life-force.

Oh, so she can read my thoughts. Great. Get out of my head.

My father gives me a concerned look, but I'm totally focused on this weird lady.

It is the way of gods, is her only answer. She's hardly even looking at me, like the tiny, criss-crossing brown logs on her plate are more interesting.

You speak really good human-tongue for a snooty god.

My aptitude is locution.

More words I don't know. I decide ignoring her is a better course of action than embarrassing myself, and focus instead on the weird, unfamiliar food in front of me. Lettuce and… chicken? I sniff it cautiously. It doesn't smell as strongly as Thundrian food. Well, I'm here for lunch anyway. I take a bite, and almost sag with relief. I wouldn't be a picky eater if everything tasted like this. It's subtle, a little smoky and crunchy, and it doesn't immediately overwhelm me with a hundred different flavours and textures like most Thundrian food does. And it's more interesting than plain noodles. Which means it's the best thing I've ever tasted. I quickly finish off what the woman served me, then sip from the cup. I didn't even notice a god-toy fill it, but it has the same dark stuff as my dad's. I think, anyway; they smell the same.

Another moves forward and serves me more from a different platter, leaving a round, matte white disc floating in a small puddle of black sauce. I shift it around with my spoon, then try to break off a little piece carefully. It feels really weird, eating god-food, but I remind myself that it's elves that trick you into eating their food. This won't hurt me. Gods eat it and I'm half-god. That's probably why that lady's so unfriendly. I stare at her again. I'm god enough to be here.

What must my mom have felt like, with the gods? Did my father introduce her to these people too? I bet that snobby lady would have been rude to her. Still, the other gods aren't as openly annoyed by my presence as she is; a younger-looking god with shiny black hair gives me a bit of a smile. I wave back. He looks around my age. Is he my half-brother? Or my cousin? Maybe we would've been friends if we'd grown up together. Maybe we could be friends. Peeking at my dad reveals that he's quite invested in his lunch, but every so often he'll glance up at the white-haired woman and give her a meaningful look.

So either gods don't talk while they eat or they're all using their minds to talk silently… I look around and notice how some gods will incline their heads to another, then turn as if they're going to speak to the person next to them and still never make a sound. I think it's the second one. Still seems… kind of freaky. Maybe it would be different if I could talk silently too.

My father doesn't notice. "Clowd, you read?"

"Yeah." I'm grateful to have something approximating a normal conversation. I scrape up a spoonful of the black sauce, then my plate is whisked away by a near-unseen god-toy.

"You like books of… of battle? Magic?"

Like… adventure novels? "I don't really read for fun." Faern would be a little more suited to this, I think. If romance novels count. "I was reading because I wanted to find out more about the gods, and what we can do."

The white-haired woman's eyes narrow a fraction, but my father nods, enthusiastic. "Yes! Yes, I can show you all our power."

Glancing around the room, I feel like he already almost has. The opulence of the house, the god-toys constantly at work… Honestly, though, that last one makes me shift around in my seat a bit. Just like my mom. Just like Fiyr used to be. I look at the man who served me. What if he had gone to Thundria instead of Fiyr?

It's nice to think I belong here, at the table with a bunch of other powerful gods, but... Don't they have enchantments that could make the food float around and serve itself? I imagine being a god-toy, and having to serve someone like Darriek or something all day long. That would suck.

I finish my food and say, haltingly, "Uh, that's okay—I'm—I'm full, actually," when god-toy steps forward to serve me again. I survey the table, taking in the half-empty plates that sit in front of gods, and the even-less-empty plates that they were served from. So much food! Where do they keep it all? The snow's melting, so they won't be able to seal it and pack it under ice to keep it fresh for much longer. This is… crazy. Where does it all come from? I remember the empty bellies and single servings from this winter—and it wasn't even one of the harder ones. The memory of counting how many bites a meal would have versus… this leaves me a little dazed. I guess the court wouldn't have to worry about feeding me if I joined Dad's house.

"You'd really let me stay…?" I ask him as we stand. I reach out to take my plate instinctively, Fiyr's nagging about bringing my dishes to the kitchen ringing in my brain. My father reaches out and takes my hand, stopping me. His skin is kind of cold.

"Of course." He gives me another perfectly symmetrical smile, and then guides me back toward the entrance we came through. "Dejka, you are my son. Kin. I have so much to teach you, and I will be happy to have you at my side. My heir."

His heir? I blink. Well, he doesn't have any children, Clowd, or you would've met them. I guess that black-haired god-boy isn't his son. The suggestion of importance makes my chest swell. He has stuff to teach me! I could find out how to talk with my mind and what my aptitude is and how to travel on soul-paths and—I glance at the god-toy, who's just turning to leave. His eyes catch mine for a second; not as pale or unusual as a god's, just sort of dark. His brows furrow, then he turns and disappears into a side-hall. My father doesn't notice. But the gods will still have servants, whether I'm here or not. Why does it matter?

"I should get back."

"Why?" Dad's face wrinkles a little with disappointment. "You won't stay."

"No, not now," I say, not wanting to make him sad, but still feeling surprised that he's surprised. Of course not. This was just some one-off thing. Even if I do come to live with him… I can't just go without saying goodbye to everyone. "Thanks for letting me have lunch with you, and… um, everyone. But I need to go back to Thundria for now."

He laughs. "Next time you'll stay?"

I falter. Don't make a promise, but… "Maybe. I don't know. I want to see you soon though."

"Yes! Soon," he promises. "Then you will want to stay."

I laugh too, not totally sure whether he's joking. "Right."

He escorts me to the edge of the manor, and he leaves me by the gates. It's nice to be able to go out the main gates without worrying about being caught by a god. The guards watch me untie Sir Fluffyhooves and mount him with their weird, pale eyes. So they employ other gods as guards, but they make god-toys cook. Weird. I guess whatever would be daring enough to attack a god's house would be too strong for humans to deal with. I shiver.

As I return to the castle, I start worrying about my trace. Can they tell I've been with the gods? Doesn't my trace already smell like a god's, or whatever? Truth be told, I tune Fiyr out when he starts trying to explain how the Trace works. I can't access it, so why should I care? I can still smell and hear way better than he can, so if you ask me, I don't even need it. Or maybe there's some version of the Trace that gods can access… The idea of an entire arsenal of yet-untouched power just buried inside me somewhere is exciting! Who knows what I can do? Fiyr doesn't. Dad might. I hope I get the chance to sneak back there soon.

Thank you so so much for reading! Please let me know what you think of this chapter and all of what we've seen so far of Clowd's dad… in a review! Until the 15th!

~Akila